Following crash, USS Truman commander relieved of his duties
Capt. Dave Snowden was relieved of his duties after the Navy said it had lost confidence in his ability to safely command the ship.
"The U.S. Navy holds commanding officers to the highest standard and takes action to hold them accountable when those standards are not met. Naval leaders are entrusted with significant responsibilities to their sailors and their ships," Navy statement reported by Stars and Stripes said.
Snowden had been the Nimitz class aircraft carrier's commanding officer since the end of 2023, the military said.
Capt. Christopher Hill, who was commanding officer of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower and also helmed it during a nine-month extended deployment last year in the Middle East, will serve temporarily as the Truman's commanding officer, the Navy said.
The Eisenhower is currently undergoing routine maintenance, which freed Hill up to command the Truman.
The Truman was involved in a late night collision with the merchant vessel Besiktas-M in a highly trafficked area near the Suez Canal on February 12th that left the high profile aircraft carrie with scrapes and gashes, as well a hole in the hull above the waterline.
The carrier was en route from the Mediterranean Sea to the Red Sea when the collision happened. There were no injuries or flooding, a Navy spokesperson said.
Its propulsion system was not damaged and there were no injuries reported. It is currently undergoing a complete structural assessment Naval Support Activity Souda Bay in Greece.
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They told me about that first birthday – the first one since he died. They said it would hit like a train. They were right. My dad would've turned 80 on Sunday, July 27. It has been nearly nine months since he died, and for nine months there has been grieving. But this is also true, what they say: It gets better with time, the hurt – the shock – that Robert Leon Doyel, my dad, the hero of my childhood, is gone and not coming back. It is the way of the world for all of us, losing a parent or someone else we love, but your pain cannot lessen mine. Nor can mine lessen yours. The things people tell you, they're true. Everyone grieves in their own way. My way has been gutless, hiding behind the gratitude – it was and still is real – that his suffering is over, and hiding some more when I chose not to fly to Florida to attend his service. His memorial was held several months after he died on Nov. 1, and by then I'd moved onto something like denial: He's gone, he's not coming back, and I'm doing OK up here in Indiana. Dad's last decade was not pleasant, starting with a car accident that left him with an uncountable number of broken bones – doctors found new, healed fractures for years – shortly after he retired. The years got worse, and his final 18 months were full of physical pain and emotional confusion. It was heartbreaking, hearing him cry on the phone in pain or mental torment, certain that everyone was out to get him, wondering why I wasn't coming to Florida to rescue him from the hospital where he was being held against his will. My dad was a lawyer, then a judge. He had a brilliant mind, legal and otherwise, and he had an argument to make on behalf of his freedom, if I would just get him before the proper authorities. Why wasn't I coming? Well, Dad, I was there last week. Do you remember? He'd start crying. No, I wasn't going to Florida to attend that service, several months after he died. It was going to hurt too much. It was safer up here in Indiana. It really does get better with time. Everyone tells you that. Nobody told tell me about the box in the mail. Nobody told me about that. From October: Rose's death stabs at my childhood, but rekindles my Dad's forgotten love language Obituary from November: He desegregated youth baseball. Veteran, teacher, judge. I called him dad. He never told me about the sniper fire at Da Nang. My dad was a U.S. Navy cook at Vietnam. That's what he told me – that's what he was. And he was proud of his service, overseeing the galley at Tien Sha Peninsula, on an old French army camp at the foot of Monkey Mountain. Dad was responsible for the feeding of 10,000 soldiers and other personnel every day. He told me that. He never told me about the time the North Vietnamese knocked out power in the galley, or about his decision to utilize charcoal grills and other temporary power sources to feed thousands of soldiers, some on floating galleys on the river, while sniper fire was coming from the jungle. He didn't tell me about receiving a Navy Achievement Medal with the Combat V, or the citation written Dec. 9, 1969, that congratulates my dad for his 'ingenuity and resourcefulness' at Da Nang and ends like this: Lieutenant (second grade) DOYEL's exemplary professionalism and devotion to duty were in keeping with the highest tradition of the United States Naval Service. E.R. Zumwalt, Jr. Vice Admiral, U.S. Navy Commander U.S. Naval Forces in Vietnam It was in the cardboard box, that medal and letter. Don't remember seeing the letter before now, but I remember the medal. As a boy I played with it – never noticed that little 'V' – and with his other Navy service stripes and medals, pins and cufflinks. Didn't know what any of it meant. Look, I was 7. This was Norman, Oklahoma, in the 1970s. Dad and I talked about OU football, about Barry Switzer and Lee Roy Selmon and Billy Sims. We didn't talk about Da Nang. From 2017: The Christmas when Gregg Doyel learned the truth about Grandma, and Dad The box showed up three days before his birthday. I knew it was coming – his wife of 35 years, Chelle, had told me to be on the lookout – but it sat on my floor for 24 hours before I had the guts to open it. What's another thing people say? Something about some doors being better left unopened. Same goes for boxes. But not this box, as it turns out. The tears came, sure, along with fresh salvos of shock and sadness. Nine months, Dad? Some days it feels like it's been just a few weeks. Other days, feels like years. You form a callous, and along comes a time capsule that peels it off, teaching you about the man you thought you knew so well. And I did know my dad well. Knew his strengths, and his weaknesses. Faults? Oh, he had faults. I could write a book about mistakes he's made. Could write a book about mine, too. This box didn't have any of his faults. Don't be afraid of it, G-Pistol, Dad could've told me, using the nickname he gave me as a kid; this box won't hurt you. These were papers and pictures and, sure, awards he'd saved over the years. His military file is in here. So are his academic records. Top 5 percent of his class at the University of Oklahoma – and the OU law school? Didn't know that. When he took the bar exam in Georgia in 1987, he received the highest score in the state? Didn't know. Here's his diploma from the University of Oklahoma College of Law. Didn't know he was managing editor of the Oklahoma Law Review. A busy man, my dad. What did I know of him being busy? He played catch in the backyard whenever I asked, which was every day in Norman and Oxford, Mississippi, where we kicked field goals at Vaught-Hemingway Stadium and shot baskets at Tad Smith Coliseum. More of the same in New Glarus, Wisconsin, and then Macon, Georgia, for my high school years. Baseball, basketball, soccer. He had all the time in the world. When did he have the time to earn 1976 Jaycee of the Year with the Norman Jaycees? When he did he have time in 1983 to earn a Doctor of Juridical Science from the law school at Wisconsin? To be on a legal team in Georgia that argued before the U.S. Supreme Court in November 1986? That was my junior year of high school. The Supreme Court? From 2018: Youth baseball in Oxford, Miss., was segregated in 1978. Here's what Dad did. From 2020: Celebrating Father's Day in a sports world getting smaller and smaller He moved to Florida the next year, leaving me in Macon for my senior year of high school. I was supposed to live with a friend's family, but when that fell through my dad showed some of his ingenuity and resourcefulness by finding a furnished apartment and putting me there for the year. I was playing soccer and baseball and working two jobs in Macon while he was in Florida, working as a lawyer. Here in the box is a plaque from the Polk County Criminal Defense Lawyers Association, recognizing him for serving as president from 1990-91. He became a circuit court judge in 1995, and here in the box is a commendation from the chief justice of the Florida Supreme Court, Harry Lee Anstead, 'for exemplary service (and) providing leadership within Florida's Court System in the area of Domestic Violence.' Did he ever tell me he was president of the local defense lawyers? Or honored by the Florida Supreme Court? I knew he was a charming rascal. Did I know someone had given him a desk nameplate that confirmed it? Bob Doyel Charming Rascal No, I didn't. But I knew he cared deeply about victims of domestic violence. Bench assignments in Florida's Tenth Judicial Circuit rotated every few years – Felonies, Civil and Family Law – and nobody wanted to work in Family Law. But there was no getting out of it, and when Dad was assigned Family Law in 1997 he was miserable about it, unsettled to hear about the suffering of so many women and children. But he found his calling. When it was time to rotate bench assignments a few years later, Dad asked to stay where he was in Family Law. His colleagues were more than happy to leave him there. Here in the box is a plaque from his fellow judges in the Tenth Judicial Circuit: In grateful appreciation for your dedication and distinguished service as Chairperson of Polk County's Domestic Violence Task Force Another plaque: In appreciation to Bob Doyel for your dedicated service as president of the Ritz Theatre 100, 1990-99 Ritz Theatre? Really, Dad? In his retirement my dad wrote one book about domestic violence that was published, and dictated a work of fiction – dictated it; think about that – that should've been. Apparently he was a prolific writer of letters to the editor, too; they're in the box. He clipped them, along with stories I'd written for the IndyStar that were picked up by the Lakeland Ledger. He even clipped a rebuttal letter in the Ledger from a woman who disagreed with his letter arguing for 'free long-acting, reversible contraception (LARC) to reduce teen pregnancies and abortions.' Here's something else, but not a plaque. More like a pin, a trinket. Wait, is this... A key to the city of Winter Haven, Florida? This is how I'm spending what would've been the weekend of his 80th birthday, digging through military files and pins and papers he'd been saving for 50 years – learning about a U.S. hero on the Tien Sha Peninsula, and the hero of my childhood. Find IndyStar columnist Gregg Doyel on Threads, or on BlueSky and Twitter at @GreggDoyelStar, or at Subscribe to the free weekly Doyel on Demand newsletter.
